


The Next It Girl

by afalcone10



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Avenger's Next Top Models was too corny, Celebrity culture, F/M, News Media, Pop Culture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-26 06:31:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7563889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afalcone10/pseuds/afalcone10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After winning the reality television modeling competition show "The Next It Girl," Darcy Lewis is thrust into the fast-paced world of fashion, celebrity and really, really uncomfortable high heels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I grew up watching "America's Next Top Model." That's the only excuse. None of these characters or brands are mine.

“And the winner is … Darcy Lewis! Congratulations Darcy, you are the next it girl.”

“Fuck!”

Wouldn’t you know it, I snort and drop an F-bomb before I can stop myself, and the judges smile even more affectionately at me. Classic Darcy, I can hear them thinking — and the fans, too, in the live studio audience. Classic Darcy Lewis.

I’d become the quote-unquote “breakout star” and “fan favorite” since the beginning of this inaugural season of "The Next It Girl," a model competition and reality television series that had pulled in millions of viewers each week for the past two months. "The Next It Girl" had taken the formula created by "America’s Next Top Model" and tricked it out so much that Tyra Banks probably wished she had created it. We’d been filming in real time, shooting an episode every four days and the editors hustling their asses off to get a cut of that week’s episode to the network all time.

Filming had stopped yesterday, so I’d been out of the modeling house and back to the real world for a grand total of 24 hours to witness all of the horrible hype about the show. Let me tell ya, it’s weird to go from no Internet for two months to seeing your face in the pages of People magazine while standing in line to buy tampons at the grocery store. Of course I spent like the first two hours Googling everything about the show and me and the next three hours after that crying about what trolls and super creeps had written about my boobs and my body and my smart mouth and, yes, whether or not I was a virgin.

In their infinite wisdom, the producers of the show had decided to film the finale live in front of a studio audience after everything had aired, so our reactions would look more “genuine” … which, gee, if that was their choice, they probably deserved to work extra fast to censor that F bomb. Because I knew, okay, I’d done well enough throughout the competition to make it to the final two … but damn, I actually won this thing?

From what the slimy producers had been whispering in my ear since the first week of filming, I’d have won even if I didn’t take first place. Somehow, I’d become renowned for both my unconventional look and my unconventional approach to starring in a reality show. Buzzfeed had said I was “blessed with the uncanny ability of saying what all the fans were thinking … and the best rack on the planet.”

I even had a catch phrase, so to speak—fans apparently loved it whenever I rolled my eyes and muttered “For fuck’s sake” under my breath. That happened every time we had to complete an insane challenge or photo shoot like posing nude with a bear cub or tightrope walking 20 feet in the air to model Chanel bags But I did all those crazy shoots, and I rocked it every time.

And now I was signed to a modeling agency and was guaranteed a spread in Vogue and a $500,000 contract with American Eagle’s Aerie line (you know, the one famous for its untouched photos and “real” models—perfect fit for what the show was all about. And honestly, I loved their bras).

“Can’t say we didn’t expect that,” remarks Tony Stark, one of the judges and hosts, at the “Fuck!” I’d just vomited out. He turns and looks at his co-host and fiancé, former top model Pepper Potts.

“Too true,” she replies, laughing politely.

Tony Stark and Pepper Potts, the king and queen of the fashion industry, had created The Next It Girl to fill the void left in America’s Next Top Model’s wake. Stark was the CEO of the international modeling agency Stark Models (started by his father in the ‘70s), and he had all the charm of any decent reality television host and the pedigree to satisfy the fashion elite. Pepper, the CFO of Stark Models, had made a name for herself as an early ‘00s supermodel, doing high-fashion editorials and booking Vogue covers with top photographers a few years ago. She became even bigger when she got fed up with all the awful things that come with being a model and she quit the industry to write a scathing tell-all that named names and pointed fingers. Of course it was a New York Times bestseller.

After she joined Stark Models and completely revamped the way the agency and, to some extent, the industry itself treated their models, she was heralded for starting a revolution in the modeling world. No wonder they’d been given their own show—even if it was on MTV. They’d fought hard to get creative control from the network (rumor had it everything was funded by Stark) and they had pulled strings with their fashion friends and colleagues to get a decent prize package lined up for the winner.

Where did I come into all this? Well, it was a joke, really. A prank. A mishap. A mistake, if you believed some of the catty bitches that competed against me in the competition (and, one by one, went home each week while I remained). "The Next It Girl" had copied the final seasons of "America’s Next Top Model" and found half of the roster of 16 “real girls” on social media—fitting, they’d claimed, because the “plus-size” model had been on the rise with Ashley Graham nabbing a cover of Sports Illustrated and top models today like Gigi Hadid and Kendall Jenner were judged and chosen for gigs in part because of their fans and followers. I had been one of those “real girls” and “instagirls,” so to speak.

I didn’t even apply — I didn’t even post the picture that got me in the competition. My roommate Jane had Instagrammed a picture of me in my glasses making a goofy face over the top of a feminist theory textbook I’d been reading on the beach, lounging about in a frilly bikini. She’d cheekily tagged @StarkModels and @TheNextItGirl after writing witty hashtags like #BombshellBrain and #TheSecondSexSymbol. I’d laughed and liked the picture and thought nothing else of it because, why not? As it turned out, some producer involved with casting the show had actually seen the picture and loved it. When she had reached out to Jane, Jane gave them my info and said nothing to me.

Thanks to her duplicity, that meant that when Tony Stark and Pepper Potts showed up at our tiny Brooklyn apartment and told me, on camera, that I had a spot on their reality show, I’d laughed and scoffed, “Yeah fucking right!” before shutting the door in their perfectly made up faces (yes, Tony Stark wore guyliner and foundation; it was way more noticeable in real life than on camera). It definitely wasn’t the typical “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” hysterical sobbing that some of the other girls had displayed upon hearing the good news.

According to the New Yorker, it was the moment I became “the post-Potts face — and voice! — of the modeling industry.” Buzzfeed had reenacted the moment using the new line of all shapes-and-sizes Barbie dolls. Vogue referenced that “iconic” moment in its review of the first episode when describing me as “the perfect combination of Ashley Graham and Cara Delevigne.”

Because yes, that was the other part of my success: I didn’t act like a typical model and I didn’t look like a typical model. I was 5’4”, a 38DD and size double-digits, as I’d taken to calling it (really, a 10, 12 or 14 depending on the brand and style). I mean, I had cellulite — and now I had a contract with the world’s biggest modeling agency. I mean, for fuck’s sake.

“Whaddya say, kiddo?” Tony asks, jolting me back to reality. He winks at the camera and then looks back at me. It’s obvious what he wants me to stay, and I hate that I’d just thought it: for fuck’s sake. Instead, I paste a demure smile on my face and pointedly stare into the camera. Pepper bursts out laughing, and Tony Stark hams it up for the camera even more, rolling his eyes. He’s an even prettier version of Ryan Seacrest, for sure (and, as much as he’d be loath to admit, an older version too).

“I … I can’t believe this,” I stutter, staring at the picture of me that had popped up on the widescreen TV in front of us. It’s the truth: I really can’t believe this. I’m pretty sure Jane is pissing her pants laughing at this back in the green room. Darcy Lewis, the next it girl.

[We can’t say “next top model” because Tyra Banks apparently had a little hissyfit about her copyrighted slogan. In response, Tony and Pepper had done a challenge in which we had to “improve” past Tyra Banks photos and magazine covers. The media had eaten it up (Twitter loves a good feud!) and Tyra Banks had just written a letter “to the haters” in response. Two days later, she retweeted an untouched photo of me from our most recent lingerie photoshoot and wrote another lengthy letter about how glad she was to see “real” girls like me “representin’” and following in her footsteps. It had made the ticker tape on CNN, which is really a depressing indicator of the state of the media today and the oversaturation of celebrity culture. Alas.]

Amanda, the other finalist, starts sobbing hysterically now—clearly, she can’t believe it either. She’d been friendly to me at the start, coming up me with some spiel about how us “curvy girls” had to stick together, but once I started getting best photo week after week, she’d slowly stopped talking to me. When it was just the two of us left, she had refused to be in the same room with me and played deaf whenever I tried to engage her in friendly conversation. The show’s editors had played it up like I was the nice girl changing the rules of snarky reality television—Amanda was the only one creating drama, since we all had our own tiny bedrooms, alcohol and cigarettes weren’t allowed on the premises and there were enough showers in the house that no one ever fought. The fact that Amanda was probably going to be a sore loser was surely going to help with the ratings.

So I did what I do best, which is calling bullshit, and turned to hug her. Surprisingly, Amanda didn’t back away and she ended up grabbing me just as tightly. Take THAT, producers, I think to myself.

She pulls away after a few seconds and wordlessly offers me a watery smile. Still, without saying anything to me, she straightens up and walks over to Tony and Pepper. Pepper is saying something to her in a soothing tone but I can’t hear anything—it seems like everything’s finally caught up to me and my heart is pumping so loudly that it’s all I know. I’m the only one left standing. I’m the only one here. I’m the next it girl, the next big thing.

Now I really don’t know what I’m going to do with that political science degree I graduated with four months ago.

Just kidding. You can still work in politics after being on reality TV. Just look at Donald Trump (though not for too long or else your eyes will probably start to water).

Amanda’s now shuffling out the door and the producers have handed Tony a cutout of me while the cameras followed Amanda’s wobbly gait. I look at the cutout and I don’t even recognize her—me. I look so effortlessly strong, posing with my hands on my hips and my legs spread wise, fierce as hell in a blood-red gown with a slight up to there. Pepper had called it the ultimate badass power pose. I agreed with her then, and I agree with her now. I just don’t feel that badass anymore, now that I won this stupid competition.

“So, uh, what happens next?” I ask. I’m not joking, but Pepper and Tony and the live studio audience laugh appreciatively. I can tell that Camera A is zooming in on my face and I don’t bother wiping off the confusion that’s probably showing.

“Next up is going to be the rest of your life,” Tony replies, flashing me that big old megawatt smile that has graced more magazine covers than I ever will. “Darcy Lewis, you’re really going to be the next it girl.”


	2. Chapter 2

Once the cameras are shut off and I give the studio audience a big ole wave, I’m forced to take picture after picture alongside my new mentors Tony and Pepper for social media (Social Media! SOCIAL MEDIA! That’s all anyone ever talks about around here. They treat it like it’s so goddamn important that it’s a proper noun).

Thankfully, Tony and Pepper are nice and have genuinely seemed to care bout me and my well-being since day one. Tony’s going on and on about how glad he is I didn’t start crying because he just made $20 off me from a bet with Pepper. She’s reaching around my back to slap any part of him she can reach and telling me that he’s just kidding. And I’m just smiling, smiling, smiling for the camera …

Once the producers have enough to post on SOCIAL MEDIA — one of them will text me photos so I can put them on my SOCIAL MEDIA — I give Tony and Pepper quick hugs and then practically run back to my cramped dressing room.

Tony and Pepper thankfully don’t say anything about the sudden bashful appearance from the girl who told them to fuck off the first time they met — and, thank God, they don’t follow me either. Instead, they start talking about setting up tweets and posts and going over the schedule for tonight’s after party and tomorrow’s round of media interviews. Because there’s no way in hell I’m getting a moment to myself from now on … which is why I started running, yes running — in six inch heels — to my dressing room (because now I HAVE ONE, OMG).

I’m still in shock. I can’t believe I won this. What a joke. What an absolute fucking joke.

The only dumb reason why I had even agreed to come on the show was because I hadn’t found a job or even an internship after graduation in my field and, what the hell, appearing in some dumb reality show sounded better than serving PBR at the bar I’d been working at part-time. I never knew this about reality shows before, but all the contestants get some sort of monetary prize for competing—the longer they stay on, the bigger the amount gets. So even if I were kicked out the first week, I’d have gotten $10,000, which (shocker!) is way more than I could have earned doing whatever shitty job or unpaid internship during that time.

We all have our own price, I guess.

Don’t get me wrong: I found out I loved modeling. And, even better, I’m actually kind of good at it. But standing in front of a camera is now only just a part of actually being a model — which was kind of the whole point of "The Next It Girl," with its focus on health over weight and interacting with fans on social media.

Kinda sucks that I’m only getting it now.

I scramble to my room and shut the door as quickly as I can. For the first time all day, there isn’t a single camera to be seen (well, I’m pretty sure the smoke detector has one but I haven’t been able to unscrew the damn thing off — and I’ve tried. The camera dude watching the feed probably didn’t report me because he most likely got a good view down my shirt). Finally, I can breathe again.

“DARCY!” I hear, and Jane shoots off the couch to squeeze me in a hug. She’s tiny but weirdly strong like that. “Oh my God oh my God oh my God!” she squeals in my neck and jumping up and down. “Darcy, you WON! Congrats! How are you DOING?”

Jane had been my totem ever since I was released from the model house, teasing me that it’s “the next big thing’s” turn to buy toilet paper or quietly steering our shopping cart to the line without any magazines with me on the cover, even if it’s the longest. The best time was when she caught some guy taking a picture of me at our favorite coffee shop and she spent a whole minute telling him to fuck off in the most creative ways (“If you don’t stop right now I’m going to dump every soy latte in this building on your fucking dick!”).

Yes, that happened. Things like that have happened — and will happen again. It’s extremely terrifying and god, do I fucking hate it. Jane and I used to roll our eyes at celebrities complaining about invasions of their privacy but now I get it. I really do.

Granted, I’m not Britney Spears and it’s not 2007. I live in New York City — Brooklyn! — and that’s pretty much a guarantee that there’s always going to be some bigger celebrity within, like, a five block radius. There haven’t been a ton of paparazzo/lurker pics, though some photo of me examining the label of a chocolate bar at Whole Foods did make it onto Twitter.

Unfortunately, it was a whole big thing because it was the day before the winner was revealed — you can imagine the headlines. “'The Next It Girl' Contestant Combats Stress With Chocolate!” was my favorite. I’m fine with people writing about me and critiquing me because that’s not my real life. That’s not my day-to-day. I don’t have to worry about that like I do when my skirt accidentally lifts up on a breeze.

But now that I’ve won, there’s a chance that this stalking pseudo-paparazzi Gossip Girl shit is going to be even worse. Oh, fuck. Damnit!

I’m not going to flip out and be all diva Naomi Campbell — it’s not like any "America’s Next Top Model" alums ever actually became supermodels and it’s all very likely that I’ll go back to being a nobody once season two of "The Next It Girl" starts. Already, I’m wondering how long it’ll be until I can start looking for internships and whether or not it’d be appropriate to mention The Next It Girl on my résumé. Would that go under achievements or experience?

“What the fuck, Jane?” I breathe into her hair. “What the fuck did you get me into?”

She laughs — again, like I’m joking, but I’m being totally serious — and pulls out of the hug. “You’re welcome, by the way. Don’t you get it? Everything’s going to change. You’re, like, a celebrity!”

“No I’m not,” I reply. “Jennifer Lawrence is a celebrity. Brad Pitt is a celebrity. Me? I’m just a dumb kid who won a reality show. Which I didn’t think I’d win, by the way — not in a million years.”

“But you did, Darce! You did!”

Before I could reply, the producer assigned to me — whose name I shall never mention because she’ll appear to ruin your life like Beetlejuice, even if you just say it once — bursts in, jabbering about whether or not I got the picture she sent and what I’m going to post with it.

That’s another huge part of the show: yep, you guessed it, social media. I’d had a personal Twitter account and Instagram page before the show started, with less than 100 people following me on each. Since the show started airing, that’d gone on exponentially. I had like, 300,000 followers on Twitter and maybe 450,000 on Instagram, which was just INSANE. Why would all these people care about what I do and say and think?

It was all thanks to Tony and Pepper’s belief that models today have to rack up social media followers like they pick up clients, which meant we had online communicator classes and competitions to come up with witty captions and were judged on how many followers we got each week (INSANE, right?). That meant that the Producer She Bitch was personally responsible in setting up and enforcing a social media schedule on me and harassing me to post that week’s photo and then harassing me again when I included a caption about how long I had to wait around on set that day or how much makeup was plastered on my skin. Ironic, given the show’s ethos to change the cutthroat, don’t eat or be eaten world of modeling … something made me think she probably would get a bonus if her “charge” ended up winning.

My most-liked photo on Instagram had been one of me doing a funny ugly face on set (a throwaway test photo from when the photographer was testing his light) while sitting on a throne surrounded by kneeling naked male models. The Producer Who Shall Not Be Named had snottily told me to quit it because “it’s been done before. That’s so Cara Delevigne 2012, Darcy.” But haters gonna hate.

I guess the lengthy captions about how applying so much makeup made me break out in hives or talking about how good I’d gotten beatboxing while waiting around on set appealed to some poeple. Or people are just liking things to troll me and that’d be obvious to me if I broke my promise to never read the comments. Such is life.

Jane silently hands me my phone and I see that yes, I had received the picture of me with the hosts. I try not to look at it; it’s not me, that didn’t happen. Already, my phone is blowing up with texts from friends, old shitty roommates, former dumb boyfriends, my great-aunt, my second cousin, my college RA from freshman year.

I don’t even think about coming up with the perfect caption as I open up Instagram, load the picture (no filter!), check to also upload it to my Twitter account.

What is it? Why, “For fuck’s sake,” of course!

...

“For fuck’s sake SAKE BOMB!” I scream at the top of my lungs so I can be heard over the thumping club music just an hour later.

“For fuck’s sake SAKE BOMB!” Tony and Jane and some of the nicer producers repeat, instantly downing the drink.

We’re at the swanky-as-fuck after party at some hot new club with an unpronounceable name and I am way past tipsy at this point. Tony and I had been sneaking shots since the limo ride over, with Pepper doing her best to grab whatever glass she found in our hands before its’ contents are tipped back into our mouths. But Tony always found a way to hand me something …

He’d stepped into my dressing room shortly after the Producer From Hell had left, satisfied that I’d posted my last photo and she’d never have to work with me again. He’d taken one look at me shaking on the couch, practically on the verge of a full-blown panic attack, and said, “You need to get drunk.”

It was the best decision he’d had since deciding to include me on his stupid show.

Well, that and ordering sake drinks with “For Fuck’s SAKE” in the title for the after party. I’ve always been a sucker for a good pun.

“How you feelin’?” he yells afterwards. We’re next to the DJ booth, which isn’t the most ideal place for a conversation.

“GREAT!” I scream back.

No need to tell him I’ve decided to continue treating this like a joke and pretending like nothing big is happening. Just another Friday night on the town with my best billionaire friend at a birthday party held in my honor … three months before my actual birthday.

“Don’t worry about it kid, you’ll be fine,” he says, nudging my shoulder and yelling in my ear. “You’re with Stark Models. You’ve got Pepper Potts, the patron saint of smart and intelligent women, in your corner. The press already loves you. American Eagle’s been chomping at the bit to photograph you in their bras and panties since that swimwear challenge they sponsored. Everything’s going to work out just fine.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because I know it’s true. You’re one of the good ones, Darcy. Everything always works out in the end for the good ones.”

I try not to snort. I’m pretty sure that New Age business philosophy isn’t how Tony Stark ended up fashion’s biggest tastemaker and a CEO in charge of a Fortune 500 company … but it’s still nice of him to say that.

Pepper sidles over at that point and wordlessly hands me a bottle of Evian. I take a few obedient sips to occupy myself while she stares daggers at Tony. Clearly, she’s not as much of a fan of the “For fuck’s sake SAKE BOMBS.”

It’d been obvious since week one that Tony was the devil on my shoulder and Pepper was the angel. They fought like mom and dad but it was clear to anyone who watched them together for three seconds that they really loved and respected each other.

“Darcy, the marketing director of Aerie is here and wants to talk to you about your contract,” she tells me. At my stricken look, she quickly adds, “All good things—promise! They really want to get some great photos of you in their new push up bra to capitalize on the show’s success.”

Let’s just say it really was not the best thing in the world to tell me that after all the drinks (and, uh, shots) I’d downed.

“Sure!” I meekly reply.

I hate disappointing Pepper, since she’s been such a good role model and mentor to me throughout the competition. But damn, if I had known that my future (current???) clients were going to be at the after party, I definitely would have cooled it with the shots!

“Go get ‘em tiger! Knock ‘em dead!” Tony cackles, clearly glad that he’s already made a name and reputation for himself as a charming cad. It won’t do much good for an “it girl” and aspiring (?) model like me to do the same.

Pepper sighs. “I never should have left you alone with him,” she murmurs once we’re farther away from the speakers.

“I’m fine. I’m tipsy, not drunk,” I defensively reply. “I didn’t know I’d be meeting clients tonight.”

She gives me a long, measured look and then nods, apparently satisfied with my answer. “Fair enough. This is a low-key meeting, too. They just wanted to congratulate you on your win and introduce you to some of the people you’ll be working with for the next few months.”

Months?

“Oh, okay.”

She steers me to a group of young, professional looking people, who seem slightly out of place in their suits. One of them, Andrea, I’d already met—she was a guest judge on the week of our Aerie photo shoot. Thankfully, she’d loved my photo.

“Darcy! Hi!” she says, smiling at me as we walk over. She gives me a double-cheek air kiss, which is apparently a thing I’ll have to do now. The other four suits (yes, wearing actual suits to a party at a club) follow her lead and introduce themselves to me. That’s a lot of cheeks to fake kiss. I forget their names a second after I hear them.

We make inane, mindless small talk about my win. Then we go back and forth talking about how nice it will be to work with them for real and how glad I am to be a part of their family. I smile and nod, of course, but what I’m really doing is enunciating clearly enough so that they can’t tell that I lied to Pepper. Shit, I’m about 30 minutes past tipsy.

“Oh, look at that! Here’s one of the models you’ll be working with for our new Darcy bra! Steve, over here!”

Darcy bra? Steve? What?

The crowd parts and the hunkiest, hottest guy I’ve ever seen sheepishly walks over to us. He’s like an Abercrombie model in the flesh (and, unfortunately, with his shirt on). He looks familiar, somehow — I’ve probably seen his photo on some billboard or in some magazine. Fuck, he’s hot. Full, rosy lips. Clear blue eyes. He looks so all-American it hurts.

“Hi,” he says bashfully, giving a little wave. “I’m Steve Rogers.”

“Darcy Lewis,” I reply, even though for all I know, he could have been introducing himself to the whole group.

“Nice to meet you, Darcy,” he says, smiling a little more.

I grin too, triumphant from my win of avoiding a faux pas.

After a beat, I add, “Sorry, did you say Darcy bra?”

Andrea smiles. “Well, we weren’t going to announce it if you didn’t win. But I was just so impressed with your work ethic and personality that I’ve talked to the Aerie team and we decided we were going to create a new bra named after you to celebrate your win! It’s a deep plunge but provides the coverage and support needed by those with a heavier chest. Like you!”

Heavier chest? That’s what every boobalicious girl wants to hear. Kill me now.

Shut up Darcy. You have a BRA named after you. Who else can say that?

“Wow, that’s so exciting!” I gush diplomatically (that political science degree might come in handy in the modeling biz after all). “Thank you! I’m so honored. I appreciate it so much.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Steve looking at his shiny black boots like they were the most beautiful things in this club packed with models and celebrities. I can see a blush creeping over his face, even in the darkness of the club. It’s a bit surprising — he’s a male model in his 20s, it looks like, and he’s certainly got the body of an underwear model. Is he really that mortified and disgusted by my “heavier chest?”

“What a great opportunity!” Pepper enthuses.

“We’re very excited,” one of the other suits pipes up, smiling at me. He has a lot of teeth. Like a shark. “And Darcy, we’d love to get you involved in the design process and hear your thoughts on shape and size. You could even help pick out the colors!”

And hopefully the marketing campaign. No way in hell MY bra is going to be associated with “heavier boobs.”

“That sounds amazing! Love it!” I reply.

Except all I’m thinking about is how badly I have to pee and why the fuck Steve hasn’t spared me a glance since he heard all about my “heavier boobs” and how maybe that last drink is catching up with me or is it just the lights getting more and more obnoxious?

“Great! We’ll be in touch later this week. We’ll let you get back to your party, Darcy. And again, congratulations!” one of the other Aerie people gushes. After another round of fake cheek kissing, they’re gone. It’s just me, Pepper and Steve.

A second later, Pepper says she has to go talk to someone and wouldn’t you know it, it’s now just Steve and little ole me.

Uh.

We stare at each other for a bit, and I’m just thinking it’ll be a true test of my modeling skillz to fake passion with this silent dude. He’s hot but giving off weird vibes.

“So, uh,” Steve coughs. “Congrats, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, American Eagle made all of its models watch the show,” he adds, ruining any goodwill I might have afforded him for 1. starting the conversation up again and 2. actually watching the show.

“Oh. Great,” I deadpan.

Immediately, he realizes his mistake and looks contrite … adorably contrite, if I have to be honest. Backpedaling, he replies, “Sorry. That came out wrong. I actually watched it. Wait. Sorry, again. I mean … you did a good job.”

He looks down at his feet again and then looks up to blind me with his toothpaste commercial handsome smile (is that why he looks so familiar?). “You handled that bear cub photo really well. Especially when it started chewing your hair? That picture will be amazing for your book.”

I smile. Okay, so maybe he’s not too bad. Maybe he’s just awkward but hey, at least he tried.

“I don’t know what I would have done. Can’t say I’ve ever had to model with a bear cub … naked … before,” he keeps on going.

“So you mean you’ve modeled with a bear cub fully clothed?” I tease, just to see if his face actually could get any redder.

It can.

“Just kidding,” I quickly add. “So, you’re the real model … are photo shoots usually as extravagant and outlandish like that bear cub one?”

He laughs — a little gratefully, I’d think, if I were any more full of myself. “Not really. I’ve mostly just done underwear and bathing suit ones. The scariest things there are usually the girls.” Stricken, he looks back at me, looking alarmed. “Not that you’ll be. Ahem. It’s just that, well, some of them are just, um, a little … grabby.”

Honestly, I don’t blame them. He looks like he’s going to Hulk out of his plain black tee any minute now.

“Guess you’ll just have to wait and see,” I reply, smiling at him. “Excuse me, I’ve got to go pee.”

“Yes. Sure. Um. Nice meeting you,” he mumbles, clearly embarrassed all over again. About what? Maybe he didn’t know women peed?

“Yep. Same,” I reply, popping the “p,” and saunter off. He seems nice enough, I guess, but I really had to pee.

…

Steve wasn’t there when I came out of the bathroom — not that I expected it (or wanted him to be there, since it felt like we'd run out of things to say). I did run into a group of twentysomething PR interns who told me they loved me on the show and wanted to take pictures with me.

Which was … weird! So weird! And I didn’t want to ask to see the picture, but it kind of creeped me out that these strangers had a photo of me and I had no idea what I looked like. It was the same ick factor as realizing you’re probably in someone’s vacation photos, maybe mid-sneeze or picking a wedgie or licking an ice cream cone in an overtly sexual way.

As soon as it was over, I spotted Tony and made my way over. Thank God. Tony was safe.

We’d become buds over the course of the show — no one else really appreciated my sarcasm, let alone sassed me back in kind. Some of the girls had tried to start a nasty rumor that I was sleeping with him and that was the only reason why I was still in the show, but that was just a crock of shit. There was nothing going on between Tony and I for the pure fact that anyone could see he was madly, deeply, stupidly in love with Pepper and he actually was older than my father.

I’d been so self-conscious about that hurtful rumor that it was the first thing I Googled once I got my iPhone back. Thankfully the media hadn’t picked up on it.

“How’d it go?” he asked once he’d flagged down the bartender and I ordered a “For Fuck’s SAKE Sangria.”

“Fine, I guess. Aerie people were nice — they’re gonna name a bra after me and I get to help design it.”

“Oh yeah, heard about that. Nice!”

“Yeah! And there was this male model there, who I guess I’m gonna shoot with? His name was Steve Rogers.”

Tony snorts into his scotch.

“What?” I ask, elbowing him in the ribs.

“You met the boy scout.”

“Boy scout?”

“Yeah. He used to be on our roster but we, ahem, had a bit of following out,” Tony explains.

Catching my gaze, he rolls his eyes and adds, “Okay, so I might have sent him to a casting with nudity even though he specifically said he wouldn’t shoot in the nude. But he’s done so many underwear campaigns and bathing shoot shots that I thought, what the hell, it’s for Armani Emporium and we all know how great that David Beckham campaign went, right? He didn’t really see it that way, we exchanged some words and he quit. Is that who Aerie’s bringing in? Those weasels!”

“Is that it? He just didn’t want to shoot nude?” I asked.

I was expecting something a little more, I don’t know, serious. Like he had a drug problem or showed up late or hated working with some photographers. He just didn’t want to shoot nude? Is that why he got so weirded about when he had to listen to people talk about my breasts? He was a male model! I totally got where Tony was coming from (#TeamTony). I mean, come on —Steve did know he booked a campaign for a lingerie company, right?

Tony shrugged. “You’ve seen him. Imagine how much money he could get for taking off that last layer of clothes. It was a business decision and he decided he didn’t want to do business with us anymore.”

I murmured sympathetically. Inside, I was screaming.

Okay, so Steve had mentioned the bear cub shoot … which was a nude shoot. The TV censors had blurred everything out, obviously, and once the producers fed me a couple shots of tequila I was good to go and had no reservations about taking off my clothes. I was honestly more scared about the bear than posing nude … which was like, the opposite reason Steve had, based on what he said to me about that episode. Was there a reason why he brought up that particular episode? Was he judging me for going nude right before we’d have to shoot together in our underwear? Was he? What the hell?

“Hey, isn’t that your friend? What’s she doing kissing Thor?” Tony pointed out, gesturing to the dance floor.

That was, in fact, my friend Jane and she was, in fact, kissing Thor, as in Thor Odinson, as in Calvin Klein underwear model with a billboard in Times Square. Thor was like the hottest male model in the industry — even a modeling newbie like me knew that — and Jane was a graduate student at Columbia getting her PhD in astrophysics. And now they were making out.

If I’d been sipping my drink, I would have spit it out right then and there, like I was a cartoon or something.

“Uh …”

We watched them make out a little bit more — weird thing to do, admittedly, but I was in shock. Tony just mostly sniggered at my gaping expression.

Jane had pored over Thor’s ads whenever we spotted them in a magazine. Now she was poured over Thor’s abs in this dark club, since he had hoisted her up and she was fastened around his waist like she was climbing a tree.

Motherfucking get it, girl.

…

Sometime during the three-minute meet-and-greet I had with the editor in chief of Seventeen (in which I did my best to charm her into booking me for a shoot — we’ll see how that goes), Jane and Thor disappeared. Hopefully together. And hopefully not back to our apartment. I couldn’t wait to finally fall asleep on my bed, my own real bed, and didn’t want to be woken up by their sexing.

I wished I could disappear too, but I had to stay and schmooze and give slightly inebriated interviews to fashion bloggers and magazine editors and say over and over and over again how happy I was, how lucky I felt, how great it was to be the first winner of The Next It Girl. There were photos taken for articles, blog posts, Instagram, Twitter and who knows what else. My face hurt from smiling too much, my feet were numb below the ankles from standing too long in six-inch stilettos and the leather corset I’d been squeezed into was chafing my boobs, which were jacked up so high I had to be careful not to dip my chin or else I’d be motorboating my own boobs. Glamorous, right?

But see, even with all of the complaining, this was probably the best night of my life. It was made even better by the thought that … this could be the rest of my life.

Around 11 p.m., Pepper told Tony and I to start making our goodbyes. I thought she was being a little old-fashioned, but it really did take 30 minutes to say goodbye to everyone and air kiss a million cheeks and fruitlessly search for Jane, who seemed to have disappeared without a trace or a text.

Once I said goodbye to seemingly every person in the club, Pepper pushed Tony and I out the door so we could catch some sleep before we had to wake up at like 4 a.m. for our appearance on "Good Morning America" the next morning. They offered to have their driver drop me off after them but I was honestly pretty excited to do something normal and order an Uber (and maybe stop for a slice of pizza along the way).

Finally, finally, finally, I could make my escape from the madness that is a celebrity model bash at a New York City night club on a Thursday night. It wasn’t until I was left on the curb waiting for my Uber driver to pull up that realized it was the first time I’d been alone in hours — so, the first time I didn’t have to posture and stand up straight and smile and laugh and talk, talk, talk.

Here, now, it was just me, outside, by myself, in the cool air, waiting to go home. Without a doubt, this was hands down the highlight of my night. That old Kurt Vonnegust quote about remembering to think “If this isn’t nice, what is?” suddenly popped into my head. That had to be my new mantra now. I threw my head back and laughed.

“What’s so funny?” a deep, masculine voice with a slightly British or European lilt asks, close to where I was.

I look over (and up!) to lock eyes with a tall, thin guy (like, waiflike … could heroin chic apply to a man?). He’s attractive, hot, sexy, yes — but in a very unconventional way, with his pale, pale skin and dark, dark eyes and his lanky, string bean fuckboi aesthetic. He was the opposite of the All American beefcake that is Steve and Thor—if this dude was in fact a model, which he certainly was hot enough to be.

This guy, whoever he is, could model the fuck out of his skinny, well-tailored black suit with a black shirt, unbuttoned two buttons lower than appropriate. Honestly, he looks chic as hell.

When I forgo responding in favor of shamelessly checking him out, he raises his eyebrow for extra emphasis at me, obviously waiting for a reply.

For a second after we make eye contact, his eyes drop to my décolleté (the girls get the fancy name when they’re pushed up and decked out). When he meets my eyes again, I can tell he knows I saw — like he wanted me to. Maybe he did it on purpose.

“Excuse me?” I reply, a little dazed

He smiles, slowly, slyly, and repeats his question after taking a drag on his cigarette. “I said, what’s so funny?”

“Just glad to be out of there and have a breather and, like, just get away from the perfume and sweat and people into the fresh air. You know?” I babble.

He nods. “All too well, unfortunately.”

“Hence the cigarette,” I deadpan, before I even know what I’m saying.

He barks a quick, appreciative laugh and throws me another searching glance. Somehow, I just know I managed to impress him, just a teensy bit.

“Touché,” he murmurs, nodding again at me.

A couple moments pass — what should I say? What should I do? — and then, of course, my Uber driver pulls up. Great timing, really.

“This is me,” I say, lamely, gesturing to the car.

He nods while taking a last drag — holy fucking cheekbones, dude — and carelessly flicks his cigarette on the sidewalk.

Grinding it out with his heel, he calls out, “Congratulations, by the way … Darcy,” before turning to walk away. He doesn’t look back once.

Congratulations, indeed. Thanks, mysterious asshole.


End file.
